I.
On the night before Christmas, I was carrying unwrapped presents from my car when I looked up at the moon, as I often do, and my jaw dropped in wonder. It was a perfect night—clear, still, silent—and the moon was 39 weeks pregnant. Her glow was so powerful it cast a halo, a massive ring hanging around her in the cold air. I must have stared for minutes on end. I knew I was looking into one of the many earthly eyes of God. It made me feel small and serene.
I texted the group chat letting them know what was what, stared a while longer, and then continued my errand. I had procured enough gifts as to need to make a few trips to unload, and each time I walked across my apartment’s parking lot, I stared at the sacred halo and watched as it slowly faded. Even as it diffused, though, its memory was etched deeper and deeper into my mind.
Later, I read in a news article that moon halos are caused by light reflecting off of hexagon-shaped ice crystals in the upper atmosphere and lining up in a particularly lucky way. Okay, sure, I thought to myself while rolling my eyes, of course. It’s all just a coincidence. Nothing more, nothing less. Very scientific. Very knowledgeable.
II.
On the day of Christmas, I had the blessing of hosting it for my family in my own home for the first time. I took care to transform my space, to make it feel warmer, welcoming… for lack of a better word, I was trying to elevate it to honor the holiness of the day. When my parents walked in, they were greeted with the sound of joyful Christmas caroling, lights adorning the walls, wrapped presents and a pine tree on the coffee table, and the smell of balsam and cedar from a gently burning candle.
I didn’t really know what I was doing, to be honest, I just knew that I wanted to try. I think it worked; I cannot speak for anyone else, but it was a day of spiritual renewal, of meaningful exchanges, of contemplation and beauty and celebration.
I was gifted a book which argues that free will doesn’t exist. I haven’t made up my mind yet whether I’ll read it.
It can be hard for Christmas as an adult to compete with the nostalgic ecstacy of experiencing Christmas as a child. But today was a perfect day. A perfect Christmas. God is good.
III.
Lately the high-functioning nucleus seperating the rational world and the mystical world has been on my mind. Many pieces of modern American society seem to exist solely to run interference against our spirits.
I thought about how those types of interactions play out every year in our schools, when six-year-olds raised by cynics proudly boast to their classmates about how Santa Claus isn’t real. Do they not see how their friend’s faces fall? Do they not sense then, even in the most rudimentary and nascent way—which, in fairness, is the highest reasonable standard one should hold a six-year-old to—that there is a spiritual cost to their words, to their worldview?
IV.
Saint Nicholas lived during the Roman Empire, and much of his life is shrouded in mystery. What is known is that his reputation for gift-giving was larger than life, with stories of his generosity traveling the lands and becoming legend. He was likely born wealthy, but gave much of his riches to the poor. Sailors and travelers hail him as a patron saint, for he is said to have saved ships from certain destruction by rebuking waves.
Nicholas was once caught gifting gold anonymously to save the daughters of a man beset by Satan from being forced into prostitution. Instead of allowing himself to be venerated for this act of generosity, he swore them to secrecy. Saint Nicholas understood the virtue of generosity, and how that sacred exchange could be tempered by desire to slake the ego’s need for recognition. A gift given for the sake of the gift-giver is no gift at all.
I have always felt intuitively that one’s acts of charity must never be spoken about or shared with others (or at least, not by the giver). To do otherwise would be to poison a spiritual well, to turn water not into wine but something far less potable.
Will you do something kind for a stranger in honor of this piece and never tell me about it? I would love that.
After all, we are each of us sailors in this beautiful and trying world. And we would do well to remember to call upon our patron Saint Nicholas when the waves look too troubling.
V.
To the reader, I leave just one question: is Santa Claus real?
Merry Christmas!
